


Journal d'un Revolutionaire

by Enjoloras



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Basically Enjolras POV post barricade, Canon Era, Journal style fic, M/M, Post-Barricade, Trans Enjolras, from the same AU as my book Chasing a Ghost, pregnancy mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:29:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24976891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enjoloras/pseuds/Enjoloras
Summary: Enjolras and Grantaire survive the barricades; Enjolras feels as though his life is over. He has no idea how much left there is to come.June 10th, 1832,I am undone.-July 7th, 1832,Forgive the scant nature of my previous entry. I am slowly recovering clarity from all that has passed of late, and though I feel my spirit has been stripped bare some strength to write is gradually returning to me.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	Journal d'un Revolutionaire

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this a while ago, but I've been tweaking it, so I'll be updating it/reposting it in the coming days!
> 
> Warning, there's some...kind of graphically described but mostly just odd/hilarious descriptions of sex, in this chapter.

**June 10 th, 1832,**

I am undone.

-

**July 7th, 1832,**

Forgive the scant nature of my previous entry. I am slowly recovering clarity from all that has passed of late, and though I feel my spirit has been stripped bare some strength to write is gradually returning to me.

It is because of Grantaire that I am living at all to write this, though I confess I do not yet know if I am thankful for that. He rose from his place at the back of the room when I found myself cornered in the Corinthe and spoke with several of the soldiers that had been ordered to fire upon me. He knew them, it transpires, from a game of dominoes some weeks prior, in which he had found himself owed a significant sum of money. He called in his debt to them, requesting that instead they simply allow me to live; there was some debate as to the matter, to which I had no input, and I recall him saying to the captain of the squadron 'he is from a very fine family, they will take umbrage with him being shot! Would you not prefer to avoid the paperwork?'

It was decided that we would have a half hour in which to clear ourselves from the area; once that hour had passed we would be as a dead as any other insurgents if we did not make good on our escape.

I did not wish to leave; it was my will to die there. Grantaire, with a few words, altered the course of my destiny with such reckless abandon that surely no good could come of it. It seems in-keeping with his character, such bold chaos. It is with some shame I must confess to having clawed him like a wild animal as we made our escape, in a show of anger quite unbecoming of me. We left, and were gone, and so lived.

I still do not know what to do with this time I have been given.

It is a gift that Grantaire thrust upon me without asking, and in truth I find myself at times wishing he had not. I had prepared myself to die long before June, and it feels in some manner as though Grantaire has stolen from me the right to choose my own ending. What happens now, in the wake of it all?

Having seen my friends butchered and my ideals left to die among broken furniture, my heart feels hollow. I had never before envisioned myself the sort of man to be cowed into submission, nor one who would desert his beliefs under any circumstances, but I am learning now that I was mistaken in myself. I have been arrogant in my assessments, too confident of the strength of my own character.

I have spent so much time preparing myself to die for our cause that I did not dedicate any time at all preparing myself to witness the deaths of my friends. It is that detail that has proven my undoing; my own person was of little consequence, but to see Combeferre on the point of a bayonet, to hear the thunder of grapeshot and know that Courfeyrac has been struck down by it? Perhaps that is where a man at last comes undone. I am suddenly brotherless.

And so I say again, writing with a more lucid mind and all the honesty I can bear; I am undone.

As to the nature of Grantaire's debt, I am sure anyone who might one day read this account will wonder what the cost of freedom runs at among members of the National Guard; the answer to this, is one-hundred-fifty-five francs. One-hundred-fifty-five! Had I known lives could be bought so cheaply I would have gladly paid the toll for every man there.

-

**July 12 th, 1832,**

Having given myself time to consider it, I feel it a sort of solemn duty to provide herein an account of how events transpired on the 5th and 6th of June, eighteen-thirty-two; it is my duty to history, and to the future I once imagined that I feel at times watches me even as I write this.

I proceed with a heavy heart, in the fearful knowledge that I may be one of only a handful of survivors from my faction. My account of those days is as follows:

I rose at six in the morning on the day of June 5th, eighteen-thirty-two. Large crowds had begun to assemble outside the home of General Lamarque from as early as eight o'clock. The weather that day was rain; I ate a hearty breakfast of bread and cheese, with coffee and fruit tartlets, and then dressed and outfitted myself for the day. I wore red, as to be a beacon to my fellow Republicans, and took with me a sabre and the flintlock pistol I had stolen from my father's study upon visiting the family estate in Limoges some months prior.

We – we, here, referring to students from factions of law and medicine, to which myself and most of my companions belonged – made to sort our ranks at the Place de la Concorde, forming into squadrons and electing our leaders.

The government, of course, met our activities with teeth bared, placing carabineers around the Place de la Concorde and stationing troops at the Place de la Bastille, as well, I hear, as l'Hotel-de-ville and in the Latin Quarter. The presence of these measures did very little by way of diffusing the tension, but rather, in my opinion, exacerbated it with tremendous effect. Such shows of force rarely quell the flame of revolution, but rather serve as tinder; to point a gun at your fellow man with such intent is, by any means, the swiftest way to inspire revolution among his friends. A government cannot ask its citizens to trust it not to seek vengeance once it has already proven itself capable of violence.

Our ranks decided at the Place de la Concorde, we made our way instead to the Place de la Bastille, to convene with several students from the Polytechnique with whom we were vaguely acquainted. At eleven o'clock that morning Larmarque's coffin left his home, escorted by Lafayette and General Clausel among others, and began its planned procession down the boulevards.

I recall little of what happened next, for the events unfolded with such speed and chaos that it is almost impossible for me to note all of them with the accuracy I should like; an unidentified horseman brandishing a red flag and wearing Phrygian cap passed along the ranks, though I scarcely saw him, and the crowd responded with notable excitement.

Lafayette took away with some haste, as though spooked, and dragoons from the Célestins barracks arrived on the Quai Morland, and were met with stones and cries of anger.

I recall searching the crowd for Combeferre at this moment, seeking his assistance to gather our numbers into some manner of organised rank; before I could locate him a single shot was fired, and the crowd was charged by a squadron that had come from the barracks to disperse the crowd.

The insurgents, myself among them, responded in kind and demonstrated to them the same courtesy they had shown us. I remember, oddly, the colonel's horse being killed from under him – it is a strange detail to recall in clarity from the pandemonium, but my memory is as it is, for it made a godawful sound the like of which I have never heard before and hope not to again.

Almost astonishingly quickly a student faction seized control of the veterans barracks, a detail which I am only learning now, in the aftermath of it all, and within an hour the insurgents had taken half of Paris. Les Amis de L'ABC erected our barricade along the Rue de la Chanvrerie, taking for our base the bistro that was named 'The Corinthe'.

It is here, however, that I find myself needing to stop; what follows this series of events is still raw to me. I feel it like an open wound, and doubtless if Combeferre were alive he would tell me that prodding at it will not aid in its healing. I am certain I shall come back to this account when my heart is capable of such feats.

Forgive me, but history shall have to wait a little longer for the conclusion.

-

**July 20 th, 1832,**

It has occurred to me after some measure of thought that I might begin to report upon our current situation; the night of the 6th, Grantaire and I were away to an inn on the right bank of the Seine, where I spent the next three days hidden under my bed covers. The room was fine, with two beds, but quickly became beyond our financial means; I cannot return to my quarters, lest someone have given me up to the authorities. Grantaire says my landlord will have long since sold off any of my valuables, though I think him quite cynical on the matter. We have taken possession of lodgings in Montmartre, where we live mostly undisturbed. There is a leak that allows some rain into the room, and one small window, but the landlady employs much discretion and does not care to involve herself in her tenants private lives providing they pay the rent. There is only one bed, and so we must share body heat much of the time - in winter, perhaps, this may prove practical, but as it is the height of summer I wake sweating upon the rare occasions I manage to sleep.

Grantaire is, naturally, now made aware of my unusual circumstances regarding my sex; such closeness necessitates it, and I cannot hide my body in a small room with no screen behind which to undress. I confess myself impressed by his impartial nature on the matter. The revelation was met with very little scandal; a barely perceivable raise of eyebrows and then an affirmation that he did not see me any differently. He even tells me now that he has met others in my situation. A tragedy that I should learn this now, of all times.

We have taken up our lodgings together under the guise of husband and wife to avoid inviting suspicion; I have acquired two plain day dresses from a young widow living on the Rue Caulaincourt, and though they fit me ill I suppose they will serve their purpose well enough. Grantaire returned once to his old rooms, close to the Cafe Musain, though I was fearful to do so would see him arrested; he is all that is left to me now, and I was quite against the idea. He returned safely, and has since pawned a fine pocket watch and fob chain, a silver vesta case, and a mother-of-pearl snuff box he was rather sad to part with. I am grateful that he has done so, but troubled with concern that he might squander the money on drink.

It is a strange existence that we have carved out for ourselves here. I do little at all besides gaze out of the window at the streets below. I feel as though I no longer have a place out there, among the people I was prepared to die for. I find my heart has grown embittered in a way I had not imagined it capable – a feeling of disdain that leaves me sick to the pit of my stomach. I watch the people pass by below and I find myself thinking them ungrateful. I do not leave the room, and though I tell Grantaire it is for fear of being recognised, the truth is that I cannot to show my face to Paris, for the failure I brought upon her. Everyday I burn with a new kind of shame. At times Grantaire attempts to coax me into playing draughts or cards, but I can no longer take joy from anything, and games only remind me of Courfeyrac.

-

**July 28th, 1832,**

We are surviving, it seems. Living together brings its own challenges, but all of them insignificant in the grand scheme of things; having suffered such loss I find us now bound together by a sense of tragic camaraderie that was not there before.

It is true that there has never been an excess of warmth between Grantaire and I; I have oft found his presence at the Corinthe to be an unwelcome distraction, and there are things regarding his character – his crude tongue, his partiality towards drink – that I continue to find vexing at best and wretched at worst.

Despite this, however, I shall freely admit here in my writings that his presence has been a great comfort to me of late. At a time when I find my life in ruin and those closest to me deceased, Grantaire is something that aches of the familiar, and it lends some consolation.

I also confess, however, that oft my mind works harshly against him. I look at him and am at times resentful that against all odds it is _he_ who survived. Not Combeferre, not Courfeyrac, not Feuilly, or poor young Prouvaire. For a fleeting moment I wish I could exchange him with someone with whom I share more opinions, and think it almost cruel irony that he should live and they do not. I must catch myself in these thoughts and kill them in their infancy, for they are vicious and come entirely without cause.

I know I ought to be grateful that I have any company at all; Grantaire's survival is not to be taken for granted. It is not in my nature to think so cruelly, and I am trying each day to rectify this in me.

His life is a blessing, and I must be thankful for it.

-

**August 6th 1832,**

I am not sure what to write.

Last night I found myself aching for comfort in a manner heretofore unknown to me. I am, or previously was, unfamiliar with the baser desires many men are well acquainted with, and I have known little physical intimacy save for the customary _faire la bise_ that I shared so freely with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Celibacy has remained a personal discipline to which I have had no difficulty adhering – and yet last night, when we had put out the last of the candles and settled down to sleep, I behaved unlike myself.

I confess here to being the instigator of what was to follow, for I do not want any mistake made of what I am about to divulge. I should not like this writing to reflect the matter poorly, or to give the impression that Grantaire's subsequent actions were in any way unwelcome or forced – quite the opposite. I put my hands on him, and he responded in kind. ~~I might perhaps later strike out this observation, for it causes some embarrassment, but I admit also to being quite fascinated by the mechanics of his body; he was soft and limp as a glove when I first put my hand to him, but in no time at all had quite increased in size and firmness!~~

We went on this way for some time, before I was on my back with him rested between my thighs. It was not an entirely negative experience, I must report. There was some pain upon his entering me, but the discomfort was only fleeting, and the most unpleasant aspect of the whole affair was how ungainly and graceless I felt, lying there with my legs apart and him huffing away on top of me. I had no idea intercourse was such a clumsy, ugly thing. There was a hint of the pleasure I have been told about, but it was over before any real enjoyment could be had of it. In truth, I am relieved; pleasure would feel inappropriate at present, as though to spit upon the graves of our friends.

I am certain that Grantaire shared this opinion, for he did not seem to take any delight in finishing; he did so with a grunt and a shudder, but no further fanfare, as though it was merely the inevitable consequence of our intimacy, and nothing more.

I realise, writing this now, that we acted as we did out of the need to be close to another person, and so though I do not plan to repeat the indiscretion I cannot find it in myself to regret it. It was warmth, and touch, and the precious sensation of a heart beating against my own. It served a purpose.

When the act was over we did not talk of it. In truth I might have liked to hold him, or be held, but such a thing felt too familiar, even for what had just passed between us. Grantaire rolled away and lay at my side, panting heavily, and I simply fell asleep as I was, my hair in disarray and an unpleasant wetness on my inner thighs. I did not know if it were the blood my mother had told me to expect my first time or his seed, but I was hardly inclined to light a candle and peer vulgarly between my legs to ascertain an answer. This morning there was no damning bloodstain upon the sheets, so I have concluded it was the latter. We still have not talked of it. Perhaps we shall speak on the encounter in the coming days, when the shame of it all has passed.

Or perhaps we shall not, and instead endeavour to forget it entirely.

I do not know which I would prefer.


End file.
